28. Brothers

brOTHERS

A n hour later, Malum stepped into the Domus Emporium , where Huxley stood near the entrance, his usual air of quiet apology intact. Boris loomed behind him, arms crossed.

“My apologies for the summons, Your Grace,” Huxley began, “but it’s delicate. Brothers by the name of Harcroft—claim they won’t leave without speaking to you. They’re here about—” His secretary lowered his voice. “Miss De la Cour’s boy.”

Malum’s brow tightened. “Where are they?”

“Boris put them in a card room,” Huxley replied.

Malum nodded curtly.

The Harcroft brothers. These men were expressing interest in the babe as Stella’s son in particular. Which meant Malum had a fair idea of who the blighters were. Predictable. They’d made a scene to force his hand—an affront he had little patience for.

As he opened the door, he took in the sight of the two men seated inside. If their well-worn garments, patched several times over and stained beyond repair, didn’t immediately set them apart from the usual Domus clientele, their rough, broad-shouldered builds would have. It only took Malum a moment to take note of the red hair and green eyes, confirming his suspicions. The resemblance to Stella de la Cour was uncanny.

Upon Malum’s entrance, the two brothers shot up from their chairs, their movements stiff and impatient.

He could practically hear them mentally rehearsing the speech they meant to deliver. They exchanged glances—crafty, knowing looks.

“Your Grace,” the taller one began, holding his hat like a supplicant but failing to mask his scheming. “Ewan Harcroft. This is my younger brother, Bram. We’re here about our sister’s lad—God rest her soul.”

Malum let the silence stretch. The brothers exchanged glances.

“I’ll get to the point, then. Blood matters,” Ewan continued, adopting an air of false sentiment. “He is family, after all.”

“Interesting timing,” Malum said flatly.

“When we told Ester to take the brat to you,” the younger brother spoke up, “we didn’t realize?—”

He was cut off by a stern glance from his older brother, but Malum had a pretty good idea of what he’d been going to say:

We didn’t realize the baby’s father was a duke.

“The thing is,” Ewan Harcroft plunged onward. “We’ve had a change of heart about him,” he insisted.

“Sit down,” Malum eventually said, a command that they hurried to follow as he took the dealer’s place at the table.

It didn’t matter one iota that Ernest wasn’t his actual son. The child had been left on his doorstep.

Blood obviously hadn’t mattered to them then. He doubted these men even knew their nephew’s name.

The Harcrofts—red-faced, as they should be—couldn’t quite meet Malum’s glare. They shifted to the edges of their seats, glancing around as if the elegance itself was enough to make them uneasy. It likely was, considering their background.

“A change of heart…” Malum murmured. His gaze sharpened, his tone coolly detached.

Both nodded, and Ewan Harcroft let out a sigh that was clearly meant to sound wistful. “He’s a bastard, but the brat deserves to know his mother’s kin.”

A small smirk tugged at Bram Harcroft’s mouth. “The family business could use an extra pair of hands in a few years’ time.”

In other words, if these two had their way, young Ernest would grow up little more than a slave.

Unless… Malum waited. Because this wasn’t what they truly wanted. If it was, then they would have simply kept the boy from the beginning. No, they had heard about that damn article. And now, they were hoping to profit from the circumstances.

“In that case,” Malum bluffed, “I’ll send one of my men to fetch him.”

Their consternation was almost laughable.

“No need to be hasty,” Bram Harcroft rushed to say. “We don’t have to take him back.” He glanced over to his brother.

“Right,” Ewan Harcroft rushed to agree. “The boy deserves to know his father. Likely best for him, isn’t it? But…walking away from all that’s left of our dear sister, that’s no small heartache. Being—being forced to give him up, having to turn our backs on our own blood.…” He let his words hang in the air, exchanging a second glance with his brother before facing Malum again. He scratched his chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Ten thousand pounds should do it. We’ll let him stay.”

These two had dared to use an innocent child as leverage. Unacceptable.

Malum leaned forward, allowing a vague smile to tug at his mouth as he narrowed his eyes. “Let me be sure I understand. You want ten thousand pounds to abandon your sudden familial sentiments .”

The brothers nodded hesitantly.

“Walk out now,” Malum said, his tone sharp, “or leave in a box. Your choice. This conversation is over.”

Malum rose almost languidly and turned on his heel, more than happy to put an end to this little meeting. But before he could close the door, the younger Harcroft, evidently not as sharp as his brother, succumbed to a moment of ill-advised pride. “Arrogant sod!” His voice rang out, laced with poorly concealed anger. “You think you can get away with treating us like—like trash? You’ll regret this, Malum!”

Malum paused in the doorway, his disdain saying what words didn’t need to. Empty threats weren’t worth a reply.

When he passed Boris, his voice cut through the air. “See the Harcroft brothers out,” he said. “And make sure they regret ever coming here.”

Malum waited to stretch his shoulders until he’d stepped into his office.

His desk was still cluttered with correspondence that demanded his attention. Resigned, he sank into his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the pile.

By the time he pushed back from the desk hours later, his eyes were gritty, and his back and legs were stiff from the lack of movement. With a glance at his watch, he realized he’d practically worked through the night. No use going home.

Instead, he opted for the small chamber just off his office, a spartan room with a firm mattress and crisp sheets that he rarely used but appreciated for its convenience.

Malum shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the chair in the corner without bothering to aim, and lay down fully clothed. When he closed his eyes, he’d imagined he’d be too exhausted to think.

But no. For a while, work had done its job, keeping certain inconvenient thoughts at bay. But now?

Thoughts from the park, earlier that day—or was it yesterday?

Melanie’s lush body against his, the little hitches of her breath when he’d located a sensitive spot on her skin, the way her eyes had dared him to do something entirely reckless.

Absurd. Maddening. But eventually, his thoughts quieted, the chaos fading into the surreal haze of dreams, and fitful sleep finally came.

When he awoke, Malum lay still at first, eyes closed, not willing to end his slumber quite yet. Then, faint but sharp, the acrid scent of smoke—not the familiar haze of cigars but something darker, more ominous.

It took a moment for the implications to register through the fog of sleep, but when they did, his eyes flew open. Even as he sat up, the smell grew stronger. Faint voices reached him from downstairs, their urgency cutting through the quiet of the early morning. He was on his feet in seconds, pulling his coat over his wrinkled shirt as he headed toward the commotion.

By the time he reached the back of the Domus , the scene was already unfolding. Smoke billowed from the kitchen, curling into the hallway like a living thing. Several workers shouted to one another, hauling buckets of water and damp cloths to douse the flames licking at a pile of charred refuse near the back entrance.

“What happened?” Malum demanded.

“Something caught in the refuse heap,” one of the workers called back, tossing water onto the fire. The flames hissed angrily, but they were beginning to relent, the bitter smoke swirling in the air.

Malum grabbed a bucket from the nearby pump without hesitation, hauling water alongside the others. His shirt clung to his back from the heat, and his lungs protested against the smoke. Still, he worked methodically, dousing the flames until they had been reduced to embers and then continuing on when the stubborn glow refused to die.

“Your Grace!” a gruff voice barked from the doorway. Malum glanced up to see Boris stomping in, looking disheveled, his shirt half-tucked and his hair sticking up on one side as though he’d only just rolled out of bed. The large man squinted through the haze, his expression darkening as he took in the damage.

“Good of you to join us,” Malum remarked dryly, tossing a final bucket over the remains of charred rubbish.

Boris ignored the jab, frowning as he surveyed the scene. “Kitchen accident?”

“Perhaps,” Malum said, an edge in his tone as he crouched beside the pile, examining the scorched edges. The remnants of crates and linens told him Boris might be right. But something about it felt… deliberate.

Boris’s gaze flicked to him. “You’re not convinced.”

“I’m thinking,” Malum said slowly, rising to his feet, “I have too many enemies to imagine otherwise.” He brushed soot from his hands, his expression darkening. “Keep an eye out. No one enters or leaves without your knowledge."

From there, the day passed in a flurry of activity, residue from the smoke still lingering. Everything in the immediate vicinity of the fire had been coated in a pale layer of ash, and the stench had settled into every surface in the building. Workers scrubbed at the walls until they gleamed, hauled out debris, and repaired the affected woodwork. The kitchen was a battlefield of labor—pans clattering, voices rising over the grind of brushes on stone, and the pantry inventory hastily replenished from nearby vendors.

Malum moved through it all with his usual efficiency, issuing orders and overseeing every detail. Every single window was opened to help clear away the smell, and a cool draft cut through the halls, mingling with the sharp tang of vinegar and fresh-cut lemons, but even that wasn’t enough to completely banish the odor.

By late afternoon, the Domus had regained much of its usual splendor. The kitchen was able to function well enough, the furniture was back in place, and the first guests would soon arrive. The damage to the building itself had been minimal, and nobody had gotten hurt, but even so, Malum couldn’t shake the disquiet curdling in his gut.

Although a few workers mentioned catching the faint scent of kerosene—a substance they routinely stocked—there was no definitive proof it hadn’t been an accident.

Boris joined Malum on the balcony, where he stood surveying the main floor, his scowl deep and forbidding.

“Call in additional staff for tonight,” Malum instructed. “I want every corner watched.”

Common sense said, in all likelihood, the incident was the result of carelessness. But… something about it didn’t feel right.

The timing of the article was too convenient to dismiss. It wasn’t just about idle gossip or public embarrassment; it was a calculated move to discredit him—to make him look weak.

Boris had suggested a few names… Lord Witherson, who’d been thrown out for cheating at cards. Callum Price, whose overzealousness with one of the courtesans had made him persona non grata. And even Dankworth or Northwoods, though Malum thought it unlikely either would stoop to arson. There were others: disgruntled employees, vendors with cancelled contracts. Dozens had reasons to resent him, certainly, but who had the cunning—or the nerve—to pull off something this audacious?

Malum’s thoughts returned to the timing. Crossings missing shipments, the article, the sham engagement, and the meeting in the park—they all pointed to a larger scheme. It wasn’t just random. Someone wanted to unravel him piece by piece.

Of all the suspects, Crossings remained the most likely. It was his style: calculated and vindictive.

And although he’d considered the Harcroft brothers, he mostly dismissed them as suspects. Would they have acted so soon after the thorough drubbing Boris had delivered? Most fellows would be licking their wounds for weeks before contemplating revenge.

No, this stank of something more calculated.

Crossings remained at the top of his list—or at least, someone working under his orders.

Whoever it was, their actions today had been suicidally foolish. Because, damages aside, fire wasn’t just destructive—it was lethal. If someone had set it deliberately, they’d risked the lives of his people, and that wasn’t something Malum took lightly.

Distracted as he was by the cleanup efforts and his deliberations, Malum nearly forgot he’d promised Standish he’d attend their formal dinner tonight. A glance at his watch had a curse slipping from his lips, sending him striding to the small chamber where he’d slept that morning.

Scrubbing away soot and smoke at the small basin took more time than he would have liked. A bath? Out of the question. He pulled a relatively fresh white shirt and an old coat from the wardrobe, tying his cravat with brisk precision. And even though a faint trace of smoke likely clung to him, there was nothing to be done.

He adjusted his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and made his way to the private exit.

Dinner at Standish’s had started half an hour ago. He was already fashionably late.